


One Time They Were

by kam



Series: 5 Times Someone Thought They Were A Couple, And 1 Time They Actually Were [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 02:47:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kam/pseuds/kam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the porny bit for the BBC Kink Meme Prompt:<br/>I really love how close Sherlock and John are in the show, and I was wondering if anyone could write a fic with the two of them just being bromantic.<br/>(i.e. forehead-to-forehead tempurature checking, eating off of eachothers plates, ect.)<br/>Maybe a 5 +1? 5 times someone thought Sherlock and John were a couple and one time they really were? FLUUUUUUFF.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John had somehow come to the (wildly flawed) conclusion that, despite sleeping for AT LEAST six hours at the foot of the steps, he required more sleep, and had informed Sherlock in no uncertain terms that, if he, you know, wanted, he could come in and, well, you know, but he was to let John sleep, under threat of serious bodily harm. Well. Sherlock did, in fact, want to, you know, but that wasn’t all he wanted. Unfortunately, one of the social rules that had managed to slip through was that things of that nature were frowned upon when both parties were not… Well. Conscious. So.

John slept fitfully, slipping from dream to dream, the one full of octopi and deep oceans, a sort of strangely comforting confinement, the other full of a great, loud sandstorm, all wind and sand dancing across his bare skin. None of it was unpleasant, not quite, it was simply not conducive to sleeping. Was all.

Sherlock tried. He really did. He cuddled up to John properly, wrapping his arms tight around John’s body and holding him close, doing his level best to surround him. That lasted for nearly half an hour before it became unbearably boring – he had observed all he could from this position, and he needed to explore from another angle. So he untangled himself and shifted, lying diagonally across the bed and tugging the sheet down, exploring John’s back. He traced light patterns across the warm skin, tapped out complicated rhythms, and re-solved old theorems. He sighed loudly and often, hoping that it would wake John. He counted the freckles on John’s arms and the blonde hairs at the nape of his neck. He memorized the shapes and textures of the scar.

Sherlock’s teeth drew John firmly from his most recent dream, which had somehow (though he couldn’t quite recall how,) involved an otter wearing Sherlock’s scarf and a hedgehog wearing his striped jumper. He swatted the offending party away and rubbed at his shoulder.  
“Why,”  
he demanded, and Sherlock, bless him, had the good sense to at least look embarrassed.  
“I couldn’t think of anything else.”  
John sighed heavily and turned over, dropping his head against the pillow.  
“I counted all your freckles and re-solved Singmaster’s conjecture.”  
“Was the solution to bite me?”  
“It’s unsolvable,”  
Sherlock mumbled.  
“Clearly not,”  
John growled, still rubbing.  
“You simply carry the two and then bite your sleeping flatmate’s shoulder.”  
“You’ve slept long enough.”  
“That’s hardly up to you, you git.”

Sherlock surprised himself as much as John by asking,  
“Can I kiss you?”  
and John surprised himself as much as Sherlock by immediately answering in the affirmative.  
“Yeah. I suppose. Yeah, alright.”  
Sherlock nodded and shuffled forward a bit awkwardly, impeded by the sheet, which seemed determined to wrap around his legs. John sat halfway up, watching Sherlock’s forward motion with eyes that were really just too blue for Sherlock to fight with the sheet effectively, and my God, how could he just sit there while Sherlock suffered this way?

John was not prepared when Sherlock’s lips found his. He was, however, prepared for the fact that he wasn’t prepared – how could someone be prepared for that? Sherlock’s lips were dry and smooth, and he pressed forward too hard and almost knocked John backwards, but that was fine. It was more than fine. It was nice, and John was quite pleased with the whole situation, quite honestly, Sherlock hovering over him, kissing him poorly but enthusiastically, knees digging into his hip. He kept their lips pressed together for too long, and he wouldn’t look at John when he finally pulled back, but that was fine, too. John simply followed, pressing their lips together again and wetting Sherlock’s lips for him.

John’s tongue against Sherlock’s lips was far too much information, and Sherlock’s brain experienced, for the first time in his conscious life, an unsettling lack of control. Because Sherlock did not pull away, did not remove himself from the situation, withdraw from the overwhelming stimuli, did not allow his brain a chance to process. Rather, he completely ignored every logical thought and rational argument his brain threw at him and continued to kiss John, responding with his own tongue when John indicated he should, and it was brilliant.

John was at a total loss to explain how someone who barely seemed to grasp the logistics of kissing was capable of manoeuvring two bodies out of their clothing and into the proper position for… Well. John wasn’t quite sure how Sherlock had managed it, or when, precisely, he had decided it was really alright with him, but there they were, and what was there to be done? Really, the only option was to go along with it.

Sherlock was operating on an autopilot he hadn’t previously known he possessed. It was akin to the most ‘brilliant’ of his deductions – all the pieces simply came together, everything fit, and suddenly he had John out of his clothes and his own were close behind and oh, is that what that looks like? Sherlock had never (at least in the flesh, so to speak) seen another man’s erect penis, and it was… Curious. Fascinating, really, as it looked nothing like his own. Fitting, he supposed – John was short and solid, not tan, necessarily, but certainly of a darker complexion than Sherlock. It made sense, then, that his penis should mirror that – perhaps a bit below average length, thicker than Sherlock’s, and darker.

John hadn’t, to be honest (and despite the general consensus), spent much time imagining what Sherlock would look like naked. He had a general idea, mind you – the sheet was relatively revealing – but he’d never seen him entirely starkers. It was hardly surprising, though. Sherlock was long and lean, far too pale to look healthy, and his cock mirrored that, long and slender and just a touch darker than the rest of him. John was surprised, however, that he wasn’t surprised, seeing his best friend naked, and all. It wasn’t surprising, shocking, or really in any way unpleasant. What he would normally respond to with a groan and covered eyes, he was responding to with abject fascination and not a small bit of arousal.

Sherlock’s autopilot malfunctioned right around the time he was figuring out what to do now that he had John naked and underneath him. John was loose and pliant – kissed into submission, Sherlock decided – but suddenly, he had no idea what to do with him.

John, being the gentleman that he was, stepped in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND THEN THEY HAD SEX THE END.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> jk.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> seriously, though.  
> how mad would you be?  
> god, i'm hilarious.


	2. Chapter 2

Frottage: noun, from the French _frotter_ (to rub); the act of rubbing oneself against a partner (or partners) in order to achieve sexual gratification without penetration. Can be performed clothed or unclothed. Derivatives: Frot – the act of frottage exclusively as performed by two male partners, generally involving direct penis-to-penis contact, used as an alternative to anal penetration; Frotteurism – a paraphilia involving rubbing oneself against an unsuspecting and non-consenting victim. Previously referred to as frottage – this usage is no longer commonly accepted. See also: Dr

 

“If you’re not going to pay attention, I’ll stop,”

John’s voice cut through the noise in Sherlock’s head and his eyes snapped open. Hazy silver met blue, and Sherlock took a moment to assess – he was presently naked, lying underneath John (also naked,) with an erection like he hadn’t had since University (when he’d decided they were inconvenient and decided to stop having them.) John’s eyes showed a mixture of arousal, concern, and what Sherlock had labelled ‘affectionate annoyance,’ an expression he only ever seemed to wear around Sherlock.

“I was paying attention.”

“You were thinking.”

“…that’s what I do.”

“Now is hardly the time.”

“What would you propose instead?”

“Pay attention.”

 

John found himself hard-pressed to follow his own advice. Not so much paying attention, but rather focusing. It was just so very ha… Extremely difficult. John had certainly had sex before. Lots of sex. Good sex. Great sex, even. He’d loved his partners, cared for them, even considered marrying one or two. But this was different. Sherlock was in no way like the small, soft, and curvy women John preferred. Sherlock was a man, with all the accompanying bits. Sherlock was all lean muscle and prominent ribs and hipbones. Sherlock had a fine dusting of pale hair across his chest and stomach. Sherlock was, John supposed, everything he’d never known he’d wanted.

 

John’s skin against Sherlock’s was distracting, but when he said as much, John only laughed.

“Distracting from _what_?”

Sherlock had already opened his mouth to answer when he realized he didn’t _know_. But it was _distracting_ and therefore slightly uncomfortable and just so very _odd_. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t think when John leaned down and pressed a kiss to his neck, though he would have sworn that, despite the idea being inherently ridiculous, he could _feel_ the smile against his skin. He was certain that he didn’t possess the facilities to process the feeling of John reaching down between them, adjusting their positions until their penises were aligned. The first gentle slide felt like lightning, the second like thunder. Sherlock felt the movement in his chest, his throat, his toes, behind his eyes. The stimulation was so overwhelming that the one place he barely felt it was his penis.

 

John had honestly never understood this particular form of intimacy. It seemed like just a very inefficient form of wanking. He radically shifted his opinion of it, however, within moments of feeling Sherlock’s cock against his.

“Jesus fuck, Sherlock!”

“Those aren’t normally used in conjunction,”

Sherlock gasped, and John was pleased to see that he seemed similarly affected.

“What, precisely, is normal about this situation,”

John managed to keep his voice relatively level, which was arguably more of a feat than his steady pace. Sherlock’s hands had found their way to John’s hips and were digging in, unconsciously urging John to move harder and faster.

 

“ _God_ ,”

Sherlock groaned, and then,

“ _John_ ,”

and he could _feel_ John’s flesh give way under his finger nails. John hissed above him and kept rocking, which was slowly but surely shorting out every single one of Sherlock’s circuits. There was no way he was going to survive this, that much was certain, John was destroying him, but that was _fine_.

“ _Sherlock_ ,”

and for all his genius it was beyond Sherlock’s ability to comprehend how John could sound equally ruined. His voice begged for something and Sherlock didn’t know what. He slowly became aware that his hips were snapping up to meet John’s, that his nails were precariously close to breaking skin, that John’s eyes were tightly closed, that the cords in his neck stood out, that his fists were clenched in the pillow under Sherlock’s head. It took him infinitely longer than it should have to realize that John was going to

 

John suddenly understood with a painful clarity the French term ‘la petite mort’ – he was certain he was dying. His vision, when he managed to force his eyes open, was white around the edges. His entire body shook, his muscles clenched painfully, his fingers and toes curled. He quickly found himself unable to support his own weight and collapsed on top of Sherlock, too overcome to even notice the sticky warmth between them.

“John?”

Sherlock’s voice was deep and rough, arousal tempered with concern, and John fought for enough breath to answer him.

“Finish,”

he finally managed, and Sherlock somehow slipped a hand between them. John tried to lift himself a bit, make more room, but Sherlock brought his other arm around to hold John tight against him. It made the entire process significantly more awkward, but Sherlock still managed, of course, and soon enough he tightened his hold on John, burying his face in John’s shoulder and growling his way through a particularly long and messy climax.

 

John recovered his faculties much more quickly than Sherlock, but Sherlock retained his strength and determination, and so they remained on the bed, ignoring (at least on Sherlock’s part) the mess on and around them.

“That,”

Sherlock began, and John nodded.

“Yeah.”

“Can we…”

“Not right now, we can’t.”

“Clearly. I simply meant…”

“Yeah. I’d be amenable.”

“Brilliant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH.  
> MY.  
> GOD.
> 
> seriously, that took forever.


End file.
